


The Knife's Edge

by bos10blonde



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: (not graphic), Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Choose Your Own Ending, Dissociation, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Guns, Hyperventilation, Infection, Knives, Major Character Injury, Mild Language, Mild Religious references, Motherhood, Repression, Similarity to real-life violent attacks, Weapons, Zombies, fluff or angst, full spoilers for Sara's backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27315511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bos10blonde/pseuds/bos10blonde
Summary: Sara Smith tells you from the moment you meet her what happened to her boys, her family. Hearing about it is nothing like living through it.
Relationships: Sara Smith / Breandan Smith (OC)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	The Knife's Edge

**Author's Note:**

> If you want just some happy Sara pre-Z backstory or to meet Breandan, Luke, and Dylan (as they've wandered into a few other pieces now), read until the double ~*~ symbols. After then it goes on to finish Sara's traumatic backstory, so feel free to back out there if you like.
> 
> If you want to read the whole thing, If you haven't thoroughly read the tags, I beg of you to do so. This fic is not gentle, and the ending is a foregone conclusion. Full spoilers for Sara's backstory.
> 
> Update: If you like mood music, start at the second half of this Sara Smith playlist (Starting with "She Went Quietly"). See if you can guess which song belongs to each of the four Smiths...https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1JgFh0VI2cNBo8pZhi8THE?si=2G9OOPbWSUG1KQTbKPyYrg

Sara Smith pushed open the worn green-painted door and bumped it with her hip to close it behind her. She shrugged out of her uniform top, dropping it directly into the washing machine in the entryway’s mudroom. The sharp, acrid scent—and probably residue—of gunpowder always lingered on her clothing, and she refused to allow her home to smell of it. Sara enjoyed her job teaching at the firing range but, believed in a strict delineation between work and home.

“Boys?” Sara called. “I’m back!”

Vague calls of response sounded from the direction of the backyard. Sara took her time tugging her boots off, tossing her wallet and keys onto a small table by the door. It was a comforting routine as well-worn as the green rug in the front hallway.

When Sara pushed open the sliding glass door into the yard, she looked towards the bright rows of color making up their small garden. Her husband, Breandan, had gotten home from work first today and was busily deadheading their most sprawling rosebush. With each smooth _snick_ of his shears, Breandan gently caught another massive pink-peach bloom in one broad palm before setting it aside.

When Breandan heard the door scrape its announcement of Sara’s return, he straightened up and pulled off one thick leather glove to reach for her. As she crossed to him to claim her welcome kiss, Sara noticed their sons, Luke and Dylan, were engaged in an intense mock sword fight with sticks. They yelled hello to their mother without interrupting their duel at the base of the willow tree. Imaginary bladed edges clashed together with each soft _tap_ of wood against wood.

“Have they been at it long?” Sara asked Breandan with an arched eyebrow, tilting her head towards the boys.

“About half an hour, I’d say. Guess it was a light night for homework,” Breandan answered with a shrug as he returned his gloves and shears to his small bench of gardening supplies. “Luke’s winning.”

Luke was the oldest at thirteen, and a gangly four inches taller than his brother. He was using this to his advantage, staying just out of Dylan’s shorter reach and using regular sweeping arcs with the stick to keep him at a distance. Luke’s longish hair, as wavy and untamable as Sara’s but broodingly dark like Breandan’s, flopped against his forehead.

Sara stepped away from Breandan to shout with one hand cupped around her mouth. “Come on there, Dylan! Are you just going to let Luke keep you where he wants you?”

“He’s taller than me! I can’t reach!” Dylan whined.

And _you’re_ shorter than _him_! Use it to your advantage,” Sara urged, settling her hands on her hips to observe. Breandan grinned at Sara’s back, knowing the signs of a combat instructor at work.

Dylan screwed up his face in concentration and nearly tripped, jumping back from another swipe. Dappled light played across the constellation of freckles across his nose that he hated—but Sara loved—as his expression shifted from frustration to epiphany. Dylan ducked under Luke’s still-extended arm and barreled forward, head down, landing a solid _thwack_ with his stick to his brother’s torso. Unfortunately for Dylan, he hadn’t thought out his next move, and Luke dropped his stick with an offended yelp and darted forward to grab his brother in a headlock. The two yelled good-naturedly as they struggled for leverage.

Breandan had moved to stand just behind and to the sides of Sara, mirroring her teacher’s pose and calling out, “Dropping your weapon to grapple, Luke? A risky maneuver. But if it works out…”

Sara gasped aloud as she realized a second too late what her husband was up to. Using his own height to his advantage, Breandan enclosed her in a bear hug from behind and gently pinned her arms against her sides. He leaned them both back slightly to throw off her balance and began to tickle Sara.

“Breandan!” Sara cried, trying to suppress her laughter and contort away from the pleasant torture. “What are we, ten?!”

“No, _I’m_ ten!!” Dylan piped up proudly, having managed to escape and swing his stick again at Luke as he scrambled to re-arm. This didn’t certainly help Sara stop laughing long enough to fight off her own mock attacker. Seeing an opening, Breandan captured her hip with one hand to attack her side with the other.

“Breandan,” Sara protested again with a half-hearted squirm of her shoulders in his grasp.

This time, though, she dwelled on the vowels, her voice lilting and musical in her soft Northern Irish accent, ending in a throaty laugh. Breandan knew he had won this round and smiled into the nape of Sara’s neck as he stopped his attack. He circled his arms around Sara and drew her to his chest. Sara laid one hand over where Breandan’s hands clasped together in front of her, and they stood together, watching their boys.

Luke and Dylan circled each other again, resuming their game of feint and parry. Both occasionally lunged in clumsy bursts of energy until a particularly enthusiastic thrust from Dylan—combined with a prominent tree root—sent them both tumbling to the ground. Sara half-snorted trying to suppress a chuckle, which set Breandan off into the deep peals of laughter she adored so much. She looked up to catch Breandan’s eye with a grin, and they set off together towards the willow tree. Before long, all four Smiths were shouting and running around the yard, acting out exaggerated falls and chases until they were all rose-cheeked from the exertion, cool night air, and happiness.

* * *

Three years later, Sara stood between Luke and Dylan, all of them spread out in a spacious row across the living room. Each held a four-inch folding knife, unfolded and ready, arms extended loosely in front of them towards the center. Sara knew the blades were dulled from years of work in the garden and opening packages, but she wasn’t about to let her sons know that. Sara demonstrated a defensive posture, holding the blade out between herself and an imaginary attacker.

“Alright, good,” Sara said, examining their stances. “Showing you’re capable is half the battle. You’ll scare off a lot of trouble this way without having to fight at all. Which is the _point_.” Sara paused to make stern eye contact with each of her boys.

“Now, if you ever _do_ need to fight, armed or not,” Sara continued, idly balancing the flat of her own knife on her palm to fold it closed. “You need to accept now that it’s going to hurt. It’s just like your tae kwon do, Dylan—you’re going to get hit, probably cut. Be ready for it. Don’t let it throw you.”

Dylan nodded overeagerly while Luke just stared back intently. Sara threw a warning look at Dylan until his expression turned appropriately serious.

“Now, remember: these kinds of fights need to be fast. This isn’t going to go on long—get in, get out, avoid getting cut. The longer you fight, the more chance someone gets hurt. Now,” she said, holding her knife in front of her to demonstrate, perpendicular to her sons. “Let me see you act like you know what you’re doing.”

The boys settled into ready stances.

Luke kept still, shifting his center of gravity down into slightly flexed knees. He had inherited Sara’s ability to learn quickly and with a laser focus on anything he found interesting. Ever since receiving his own engraved utility knife from Breandan for his sixteenth birthday, Luke had been offering to help his father in the garden, eager to unlock its uses.

“Good strength there, Luke,” Sara said approvingly. “Just keep on the balls of your feet there, be ready to move.”

Luke nodded and shifted slightly while Sara circled wide to approach Dylan. Dylan was bobbing back and forth on the balls of his feet, waving his arm in front of him erratically, although he stilled when his mother reached him. At thirteen, he’d had a growth spurt over the spring that almost brought him to Luke’s height. His shoulders were a little broader, and his whole demeanor louder than his more studious sibling. Sara wasn’t surprised he had tried for a more aggressive stance.

Sara reached carefully for his extended hand and adjusted his grip, tightening it and rotating the knife slightly. “Turn the edge away from your pinky; you’re trying to cut the other person, not yourself.”

“ _Who_ are we trying to cut?” Breandan’s voice came suddenly from the direction of the front hall. Luke and Dylan lowered their knives at his tone and glanced at their mother for guidance. Sara stepped away from Dylan to turn to her husband.

“Nobody in particular,” she explained with her usual matter-of-fact cheerfulness, “but knowing the basics goes a long way in self-defense. Never know when you might need it, right, boys?”

“Mum was teaching us what to do if someone comes at us with a knife, Dad,” Luke said evenly, while Dylan nodded agreement. “To scare them off and stuff.”

A series of expressions flashed across Breandan’s face too fast for Sara to identify before he simply gave a thin smile.

“Well, it’s always good to know how to get out of a bad situation,” Breandan acceded carefully. “But right now, I’ve got steaks getting warm in the car—will you boys go grab them for me? I need your mother’s help to pull out the barbecue.”

Luke and Dylan broke into grins and cheers, folding their knives and putting them on the nearest flat surface to run out to the car. Breandan jerked his head toward the backyard, but Sara was already following him out. She waited calmly near the glass doors while Breandan paced across the concrete patio, sporadically tugging the barbecue out from under its covering. Sara mentally conceded she probably should have waited until he was home to start this particular lesson. But, after seeing the news that morning…

_“You’re teaching them to knife fight?”_ Breandan finally asked incredulously. “Sara, _Jesus_ , they could hurt each other!”

“Not if I teach them to do it properly, they won’t,” Sara retorted, crossing her arms. “You act as if we haven’t discussed this—”

“We didn’t discuss _weapons_ , Sara!” Shaking his head, Breandan took the shovel from where it leaned against a wall and tossed the handle from one hand to another. “I mean, I understand basic combatives, and I assumed you’d take them to the firing range at some point—”

Yes, but how often do you see _guns_ lying around, Breandan?” Sara interrupted with an exasperated tilt of her head. “We’re not in _America._ The boys need practical skills. They need to be able to defend themselves…from anything. And guns are so…indiscriminate.”

Breandan stared at Sara for a long moment, then sighed and returned the shovel to its place.

“Look…I know you’re just trying to teach them and keep them safe. You know I’d do the same thing. But ever since they put you on that new project, it’s like…like you think something bad is coming. I’m _worried,_ love, about you, and whatever it is you’re working on—” Breandan put a hand on each of Sara’s shoulders to study her face. “Do we need to be concerned?”

“It’s not like that,” Sara shook her head, trying to be reassuring. “There’s nothing…it’s not about anything in particular, or what we’re working on. It’s just…taking precautions.”

Sara knew Breandan understood why she couldn’t elaborate, having left the service only a few years ago himself. He looked at her a moment longer and nodded, dropping his hands from Sara’s shoulders to trace down her arms with his thumbs and catch her elbows. Sara stepped into him and wrapped her arms around his waist in an embrace, leaning back to look up at him.

“I should have told you what we were doing first,” Sara said softly. “I apologize. I just want us to keep our boys safe.”

Breandan smiled his forgiveness and hugged her back. “We always have, Sara.”

The moment was cut short by a clattering suddenly arising from the kitchen behind them. The boys had clearly come back with the groceries and were being none too gentle with the cabinets. Breandan grinned and started opening the grill, while Sara rolled her eyes and headed in to investigate.

* * *

~*~  
~*~

Sara was sighing over paperwork at her desk barely a year later when her cell phone rang, acoustic guitar strums interrupting the office’s quiet. For a few seconds, Sara just stared at it; that was Breandan’s ringtone, but he never _called_. With a sudden spark of alarm, Sara snatched up the phone and answered.

“Sara?” Breandan sounded worried but was trying to stay calm. “Luke came home from school pretty sick, and he’s coughing real bad—Sara, I think we should take him to a hospital; he’s acting off—”

Breandan stopped abruptly, and Sara could hear something crashing in the background. Dylan seemed to be yelling something, which wasn’t itself unusual, but the way he seemed to trail off harshly at the end—

“Sara, I think you should come home, _now_ ,” Breandan said, alarm. Sara had only heard that tone a few times—when she’d nearly passed out from a ruptured appendix halfway through a hike; when Dylan had been bitten by a stray dog and needed ten stitches…

“Sara…it’s almost like what’s been on the news—”

“I’m coming,” Sara said before hanging up, already grabbing for her keys and yanking on her tan leather jacket.

Sara drove as fast as she dared. Traffic patterns were disconcerting the whole way home. There had been almost no cars headed her direction, but the freeways out of the city were at a total, horns-blaring standstill. Instead of relief at a clear path, Sara only felt trepidation climb to claw at her throat.

Once you knew where to find out about this kind of thing, you always could. Sara had been following the news for months—rising controversy and acts of violence against bioengineering research labs; recent whispers of strange scientific findings or people going missing after medical trials. None of her old contacts were able to give her much detail. They didn’t know—or weren’t able to say—more than, “There’s something strange going on. Keep an eye out.” Sara understood their reticence; she could no more tell them about Project Greenshoot, the project that had been camped in the back of her mind for years now.

So Sara had just kept watching. Reports of a “strange virus,” a “mystery killer,” and “livestock mauled, wild animals suspected” buried in the headlines of small-town newspapers across England had not escaped her notice. She had suspected something was coming, but she had misjudged the distance.

Sara prayed for the first time in a while, muttering frantic pleas at the car dashboard.

_It can’t be that, not here. Please let me be wrong. It was so far away. Please…_

Sara kept trying to call Breandan, an ambulance, _anyone_ , but there was suddenly no cell service. Even the emergency line beeped dully back at her after the hold music cut out. It had been barely fifteen minutes since Breandan’s call, and the lines were dead. Sara pushed the gas pedal forward another inch, knuckles white around the steering wheel.

A painfully long thirty minutes later, Sara whipped the final turn into the driveway and slammed the car into park. She had the car door open before she’d finished taking the key out of the ignition, half-falling out of the car in her haste to make it to the house. She could hear the commotion already and darted left to sprint towards the garden gate.

An inhuman choking groan mingled with a man’s desperate shouts shattered the silence of the neighborhood. It sounded like every horror movie monster noise Sara had ever heard, played all at once through a shredded voice box. And it was coming from her own backyard.

Sara nearly tore the latch off the gate in her haste. The sight before her was everything she had feared. Fight-or-flight mode kicked in so hard Sara felt an icy shudder through her chest. Without thinking, she was already moving slowly into the yard, maintaining sightlines, looking for cover as if she was in the field. It didn’t take long to see what was happening

Breandan was struggling with Luke in the middle of the yard between the willow and the garden. Breandan had a knee on Luke’s back and was clearly trying to keep the boy’s wrists pinned to the earth. Luke was thrashing underneath him, hands clawing at the grass wildly, trying to twist his torso around so he could get at his father. Breandan was bleeding from one shoulder, although Sara couldn’t tell from what.

Luke’s every movement seemed led with the head, with gnashing jaws, with ghoulish noises somehow coming from a teenager’s throat.

Sara hadn’t even recognized her own son’s voice.

_That’s not your son,_ an animal instinct told Sara. She refused to acknowledge it.

“Breandan!” Sara yelled, desperately looking around. “What’s going on?”

“Sara!” Breandan bellowed as Luke’s elbow connected hard with his jaw. “Stay back—stay away from Luke, he’s not right— _ngh_ —he—get Dylan!”

There was Dylan, to Sara’s right, half-lying against the low garden wall, eyes closed. His skin was almost as unnaturally tinged as his brother. Sara was at his side in a second, laying the back of one shaking hand against his burning forehead, begging him to sit up and look at her. He groaned weakly but couldn’t seem to keep his gaze focused. Sara’s gut twisted agonizingly in fear. He was bleeding from an arm and a leg and clutched Luke’s prized knife in one slack fist.

“Dylan, Dylan—baby, please, what’s wrong? What’s happening?” Something in Sara didn’t recognize her own pleading voice. Decades of training recoiled from the vulnerability screaming in it.

Dylan shook awake into a hacking, rattling cough. Sara instinctively leaned away, covering her face with one sleeve. He was paler than she’d ever seen him. Sara rechecked her phone—still no signal.

Breandan’s grunts were growing louder and more pained behind her. There was no time to panic.

Sara stood and grabbed the longest garden tool she could immediately reach. If she could separate Breandan and Luke, find out what was happening—

Her intervention wouldn’t be necessary. Breandan cried out as the smaller figure managed to throw him off with disconcerting strength. It was clear now that the boy’s skin was an unnatural grey, every movement jerky and uncoordinated. He lunged for Breandan first, grabbing for his exposed torso with nails and teeth. Breandan managed to roll backward enough to kick with both his legs at the boy’s chest, delaying the attack but turning Luke’s body to face Sara. 

The thing that had once been Sara’s eldest son paused. Snarling, it launched itself from a crouch directly towards her, mouth wide and arms reaching. Simultaneously, something from behind Sara scrabbled for purchase on one arm, followed immediately by a slash of a blade across the right side of her back. For a split second, searing pain whited out Sara’s vision. Then something clamped onto one forearm as though trying to break through the leather sleeve, and muscle memory took over.

Sara would never remember what happened next, nor would she ever try.

She blinked, and there were two figures crumpled on the dampening ground beneath a willow.

It was the smallest of mercies, not to remember what had happened, what she had done. Whenever Sara allowed herself to look back on that day, she knew it was probably the only thing keeping her on this side of the knife’s edge of sanity.

Sara stood in the center of the yard, eyes fixed on the figures, panting. A glint of light caught her eye. Luke’s knife lay to one side of her, blade wet and red.

“Sara… _Sara_!” Breandan shouted, breaking her out of her fugue. He hadn’t gotten up from where Luke had thrown him. He was sweating and trembling, bleeding from more than just his shoulder now. Sara turned and ran to him, kneeled by his side, reached for his forehead. It was terrifyingly hot.

“Breandan—”

“Sara, what did you do? The boys—our boys—”

Breandan broke off into a desperate coughing fit. Sara could feel her heart shatter in her chest as all the signs came together: the half-circle of rips in his shirt in the shape of human teeth. The paleness of his skin, already growing worse since she’d entered the yard. Fever, cough.

He’d been bitten. The wounds matched Dylan’s.

“Breandan, please. You have to tell me what happened. Tell me everything, quickly.”

Breandan sucked in a breath with an urgency matching Sara’s.

“Luke—he was sent home from school early, got into some sort of fight. He was all scuffed up, bleeding…then suddenly he had a fever, and that awful cough…Sara, it happened so fast. It couldn’t have been more than an hour—he kept getting worse. When I tried to get him in the car to the hospital, he just kept yelling, took a few swings at me. And then when Dylan came home…” Breandan shook his head, turning away from Sara.

Sara swallowed hard, although her throat was so tight she felt she might choke. She couldn’t afford to break now.

“The virus,” Sara almost whispered, gently laying a hand against Breandan’s cheek to turn him towards her. She could see in his eyes that he knew. They both knew.

They both looked at what had always obviously been a bite mark on Breandan’s shoulder.

“Sara,” Breandan said, voice low. “That was Luke, too.”

“I know.”

“Sara…you’re going to have to—” Another coughing fit.

Sara put all the fire she had left into her voice. “No, Breandan. No! The boys were already gone, but you’re still talking, you’re still _here_!”

“Won’t be—for long,” Breandan managed. His vowels were already stretching longer, a brutal quality in his voice like dragging a knee against cement. “There’s no way…nobody knows how to fix this yet.”

Sara shook her head slowly, but her husband’s eyes were rapidly unfocusing.

“You have to…stop me.” Breandan’s voice sounded almost normal for a moment, and he reached to cover Sara’s hand on his cheek with his own. They were both holding back sobs now. “It has to be done. Before I…go for you too. Sara…Sara, I love you so much. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect—that you... But please, Sara, love—I can’t—You have to get out of here, survive!” His tone was frantic, voice torn at the edges, words crashing into each other in a rush to get everything said.

Despite the danger, Sara couldn’t stop herself from diving forward for one final embrace. She pressed herself to Breandan’s broad chest, hoping to pull out what was left of him there, to feel him one more time. For a second, Breandan returned the gesture, and Sara’s heart jumped in a split second of hope.

But then his arm around her back grew too tight, crushing her against him. He felt too hot at the core, but his fingertips were icy cold as he grabbed hold of her wrist, still close to his face. Already, Breandan’s scent had changed—the earthy warmth Sara had always found there was gone, replaced by the metallic tang of blood and life cut off from motion.

Sara leaped back, breaking out of his hold, scrambling to her feet, but Breandan kept a vice-like grip on her wrist, struggling to rise with her. Another deep cough shook his frame, and Sara yanked her arm free while he shuddered. The coughing didn’t stop for almost two minutes, and Sara could practically see Breandan’s skin turn that same sickly grey. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a groan. There was only hunger in his eyes now.

_That isn’t Breandan anymore._

Sara stumbled backward in a crouch, searching behind her back for the handle of the shovel. Her fingertips grazed against the wood grain, but she’d extended her arm too far—she overbalanced and fell hard on one hip.

The thing that had once been Breandan had staggered to its feet now, low groans coming spastically from its throat. It jerked around to face Sara and shuddered violently a couple of times, at war with itself, a continuous, spluttering roar tearing itself from a gaping maw.

Sara closed one hand around the shovel’s handle and pulled it to one side in a wide arc. She brought it around in front of her and wavered, considering whether to strike or flee— _wrong move_. The figure loomed directly over her now, and there was nowhere left to go. Twisting to the side, Sara grabbed the wooden pole desperately with both hands, shoving it upwards as a horizontal barrier. What had been Breandan clutched at the handle and pushed forward, throwing its whole mass into closing the distance. Sara locked out her elbows, trying to keep it away, but she was overpowered. She wouldn’t have much longer until her grip broke.

Sara wrenched her torso sideways, throwing her weight back onto her shoulder blades to get the leverage to sweep a kick across the sides of the thing’s legs. It fell to its knees long enough for Sara to scramble to her feet and raise the shovel above her head.

This time, Sara didn’t hesitate and brought the flat of the blade down as hard as she could on the skull of the snarling figure. There was a moment of resistance, then the tool carried through until it hit against the ground. The moaning finally stopped with a sickly, fleshy _squish_.

Everything stopped for an agonizing, crystallized moment.

Sara stared at what had once been her husband. The body lay crumpled and angular like a discarded origami figure, a blur of gore where the head had been. It was all wrong. The colors were wrong. Fragments of bone were too white against the blood that did not pool, but slowly oozed. Sara was familiar with blood, and there was something incorrect about this. Inhuman.

The thing before her wasn’t Sara’s husband.

She had done what she needed to do.

What now? Survive, Breandan had said.

Sara turned back to the house.

* * *

She didn’t feel anything.

She didn’t feel _anything._

Sara could hear a wailing, a banshee’s shriek into the wind over the side of a rocky black cliff. But it was coming form somewhere far away, not near Sara. Or maybe it was in her head, somewhere deep and close and lurking in the depths of her brain. But it wasn’t her. When Sara put a steady hand to her mouth, she found it closed, a silent line pressed tightly shut. When she swiped at her cheeks, they were bone dry—but her fingertips were not. Now her face was wet with something other than tears.

As if it mattered at all, Sara turned to look for the rag Breandan kept with the gardening supplies. At first, her eye lingered on the bright spots of pink-peach roses perched on their nests of thorns. Sara started to move towards them, but a dragging sensation at her arm indicated she had not let go of the shovel. One hand was still clenched white-knuckled around the handle, pressing it painfully into her palm. There was a spot on the handle where the wood was darkened and worn smooth from Breandan’s grip over the years. When she touched the spot, thought, it didn’t feel any different than the rest of the handle. It was cold and hard and unfeeling.

She could relate.

Sara wasn’t sure why she was still looking at the shovel or what she had intended to do instead. Nothing felt anything like she thought—like she _knew_ it _should_. She ought to be sobbing, shrieking, shaking with fear, or retching the contents of her stomach after what she had just done.

But it had needed to be done.

And she had done it.

Sara turned to look one last time at the three figures piled around the willow tree. There was no movement, no sound.

Lying on the lawn between Sara and the tree was a knife. Without thought, Sara picked it up, wiped the edge against the grass, and pocketed it.

Sara’s chest felt like an incandescent lightbulb—hard and hollow and burning and liable to shatter into daggers at the slightest pressure.

Sara went into the house. It was dangerous to be out at night, with those…God knows what around. She stared at the door as she bolted it behind her, then, with a burst of urgent purpose, used the shovel—why was she still holding it?—as leverage to shove the dryer in front of it. Sara dropped the tool with a clatter and sprinted around the house, slamming shut windows, toppling a bookshelf across the sliding glass doors, careening around a corner to sprint up the stairs.

Only when everything was locked, blocked, and checked did Sara stop. She stood frozen in the middle of a hallway, surrounded by doors leading to what used to be her family’s bedrooms. She was panting harder than she liked, snatching for rapid bursts of air but never able to get enough—must have taken the stairs too fast; she shouldn’t be _that_ out of shape.

For a fragment of a moment, everything stabilized with steel-sharp clarity. Sara saw herself as if from above, standing wild-eyed and frozen like an idiot in the middle of the house she’d just barricaded herself into. She scowled at how she must look, gasping for air, streaked with mud and blood and something else; something reddish-grey and foul-smelling that was too viscous to absorb into her jeans.

Sara frantically stripped off her leather jacket, checking herself for wounds. Was that her own blood on her shirt or…someone else’s? Sara ran her hands over any part of her she could reach until she was sure. No bite marks. There were scrapes, a shallow slash across the back of her ribs, bruises lurking at her wrists and hip, and an unusually deep soreness in one shoulder. But nothing deep. Nothing punctured. Nothing bitten.

_Well, that;s something, anyway._

Sara waited expectantly for an emotion to hit. She was okay; she probably wasn’t about to turn into one of those…things. Did she feel relieved?

_Not really._

Did she feel disappointed?

_Not really._

Did she feel anything?

Well, she must feel _something_. It just hadn’t registered yet. Sara could half-sense a deep rushing river of terror and grief in the back of her mind. She decided not to wade into it. It would be there later.

Sara entered her bedroom—what had been her bedroom. She dug one of her old military-issue packs from the corner of a closet and began to toss things into it, darting back and forth and around the house to grab anything she could think of that would help. Only when the bag was full and bordering on uncomfortably heavy did Sara finally let herself rest. She curled up on top of the covers of her bed, trying to position her arms to protect her belly and neck as much as possible.

Sara couldn’t tell if she slept, or if the burning tears on her cheeks were real or dreamed. 

* * *

Sara left at first light. Her backpack pulled heavily downwards on her shoulders, loaded with all the canned food and ammo she could fit along with some clothes and necessities. Luke’s prized hunting knife, carefully folded and half-wrapped in a rag, dug into her side from where she’d clipped it inside her belt. A pistol clunked heavily against her leg from inside the bag and holster strapped to her right thigh. The rhythmic pain was a welcome reminder that she could still feel anything at all.

Sara didn’t know where to go, really. She just knew she couldn’t go back. So Sara ran away from the city, away from silent houses looming with the possibility of infected people, towards rolling farmlands and the distant buzz of far-off aircraft. There was a military base west of the town, which seemed as good a place as any to head towards. She could always say she was just reporting in, ordered to report there in the wake of what was clearly a national emergency. Anyway, heading for her garrison office in the city was not a good idea, not when whatever had happened to her boys was spreading.

Sara traveled the entire day, running as much as she could, walking when she needed to. She kept moving, hoping her dead reckoning would land her somewhere useful. Noises from just over the next hill or cluster of buildings came and went like waves on a rugged shoreline. Shattering glass, screeching tires, crumpling metal, screams that suddenly ended…and something lower, more persistent, a growling and groaning that didn’t echo correctly. Sara couldn’t pinpoint where the sounds were coming from and never saw anyone else, so she hurtled into a sprint away each time, crafting a zigzagging course of safety.

For a while, Sara tried to stay in sight of major roads. The freeways were worse than standstill—they were a solid line of hollow glass and metal, as still and unmoving as if they’d never moved at all. It had been a good idea not to take the car, then. It was eerie. No a single horn blared, not a single human moved among the debris. One night had been all it took for everyone on the roads to flee or fall.

After the third time less-than-human figures began to stumble towards Sara from the asphalt, she changed tactics to move through the forest instead. She hadn’t run directly into anyone else, which was probably a kindness for all involved. It was best to avoid everyone, human or…were zombies really a thing now?

That night, Sara sat on the cold ground staring into the small fire she’d built in a hollow in a field. She didn’t know if the light would attract attention, but she’d rather be able to see anything incoming. Sleep was out of the question. Sara was alone in the dark, eyes fixed on the orange flames casting a flickering halo around her position.

Sara leaned her bag against her leg, still mostly zipped so she could grab it in a hurry if needed. She forced herself to keep chewing one of the meal bars she’d brought, but it was sickly sweet in a way that clamped onto the back of her tongue, and she couldn’t tell what dessert it was supposed to imitate.

Sara rummaged around her bag until she found the lone sentimental item she’d packed and drew out a familiar leather-bound book. She ran her fingers over the moss-green cover and the shallow imprint of a cross, still gleaming with flecks of gold leaf. The tome had been passed down from her grandmother, with three generations of names scrawled on the front page, and she’d known its weight in her hand as long as she could remember. Sara flicked open the book, flipping aimlessly through the places where she’d tucked photographs between the pages. She stopped when she found the one she hadn’t realized she was looking for.

It was a photograph of her boys, framed from behind. She’d taken it on a hiking trip to the Scottish Highlands when the boys were small enough that Breandan could still carry Dylan. The three figures were silhouetted against a backdrop of the setting sun, casting their comforting shadows against a sky shot through with blood-red streaks over a peachy glow. She couldn’t see their faces, but Sara could feel that day in every line of their silhouettes: The gentle slope of Breandan’s shoulders as he laughed and hiked Dylan up on one hip; Dylan’s golden hair forming a wild crown around his head, peeking over Breandan’s shoulder at Sara; the way Luke clutched Breandan’s outstretched hand, focused entirely on what his father was saying. It was an image of pure love against a majestically turbulent sky. This was Sara’s favorite picture of her boys.

It was also shaking in her hand. She squinted as the flickering firelight and movement made it hard to see the details. Was it windy? Sara tucked the picture back into the book, where it would be safer. She dropped it back into her pack and slowly scanned all around her. She didn’t see any movement.

_That doesn’t mean there isn’t any._

Sara looked around again halfheartedly. Purposeless, she returned to staring into the flames. She couldn’t feel any warmth; she must have built it too small. A Girl Guide, Sara was clearly not. Maybe she should see if there was something similar that Dylan or Luke could join.

_Except._

Sara’s brain froze on the thought, spinning into blank space like a webpage that wouldn’t load, refusing to advance to what came next.

Thankfully for Sara, a panicked scream tore through the night and broke her steadily darkening reverie. Sara rose to a crouch, keeping as far into the hollow as she could while looking out. She strained to see where the sound had come from, but it had stopped for the moment.

But then—there! Was that movement across the field?

The scream came again, nearer, definitely female. Sara’s gaze snapped to gain track of the movement, and she could see a woman running across the field at a dead sprint, arms and legs flailing widely. Sara waited and watched in silence for a moment. What was the woman running from? Human or not human?

“Help me! Oh, God, somebody help me! Please!” The woman’s voice was shrill with panic, half-sobbing, half-gasping. She made straight for the fire; she’d probably seen the glow from across the field. “Please, if there’s—if there’s anybody there, help!”

Well, she was human then. At least for now. And now Sara could see a ragged group of figures shambling through the darkness towards her position. Theses silhouettes were wrong, broken, and moving unnaturally. _Zombies._ There was no way they could be anything else. There was a solid dozen of them, too many for Sara to take on at once with a single pistol.

Sara silently straightened up to stand, taking a few steps to the right. The panicking girl kept running straight, her two braids streaming backwards with the momentum; she hadn’t seen Sara, then.

For a second that felt like minutes, Sara considered what to do. She could just run now, run left and away from this whole mess before anyone knew she was there. The zombies didn’t seem that fast so far; perhaps the woman could outrun them. If Sara interfered now, she might get herself killed.

_So why not?_

Death didn’t seem like a frightening prospect anymore. Why did it matter what happened now?

_At least this might help someone._

Sara grabbed her pack and darted around the fire, calling softly and waving one arm over her head to attract the woman’s attention. She may be a picture of panic, but at least she was closing in fast.

“Over here!” Sara shouted, noticing she sounded very calm somehow. “Around the fire, then a sharp turn towards me—we’ll head for the trees.”

“Will that help?” squeaked the woman, but she didn’t stop, and she did as she was told. Sara took off running in the lead. They headed headlong for the darkened treeline, and the pack of zombies in stumbling pursuit.

The woman caught up with Sara by the time they reached the trees. The two of them ran in silence for another five minutes, darting wildly through the trees, trying not to go sprawling over roots hidden in the dim moonlight. They were following no particular route except away from the small swarm that had been in the field.

Sara idly wondered if leaving the fire burning would be dangerous. It couldn’t be helped now.

Eventually, the moaning and shuffling pursuing them faded away. Sara caught the woman’s eye and indicated a clearing ahead and to their right. The treetops were far enough apart here to allow some moonlight through, and the pair slowed to a stop, watching for any sign of further danger.

Sara studied the other woman. Her eyes were wide and darting around the clearing, her two braids beginning to fray and unravel. She was wearing a clearly handmade jumper, its bright pastel colors at odds with their situation. Once she caught her breath, she turned to Sara.

“My name’s Jody Marsh,” she said, keeping her voice cautiously low. “Thank you—thank you so much. If you hadn’t helped me, I would’ve died out there! It was lucky I saw your fire across the field, and I know you didn’t have to—well, just, thank you. You saved my life.”

Sara returned the handshake. “Sara Smith. Don’t worry about all of that—I just did what I could. It’s lucky you’re a good runner.”

“Yeah, my friends—I was with a few people, they’re all back in one of the farm buildings for the night—sent me out to look for supplies ‘cos I’m the fastest,” Jody said, looking back in the direction they had come. “Are you alone out here?”

Sara nodded.

“Well, you ought to come with us then! It’s the least I can do to thank you—there’s safety in numbers, they always say, and we’ve got some food and a place to sleep for the night…”

“You think the group that sent you out to get attacked is going to keep you safe?” Sara scoffed. “Sure, you came out alright this time, but what was your plan? Look for supplies and hope you didn’t run into trouble?”

Jody crossed her arms defensively, although her expression told Sara all she needed to know. Sara sighed. As much as she wanted to press on towards Mullins alone, she couldn’t leave these people wandering the farmland to become zombies.

“There’s a military base out to the northwest,” Sara said, summoning the authoritative tone that had served her well over the years. “If you follow me, we can at least get directions on where to go next. If your so-called friends are still…around…they may as well come too.”

Jody blanched at the implication her friends might be dead, but Sara had said it so casually any protest stuck in her throat.

“Well…” Jody sounded uncertain. “If we get back to where everyone’s bunked for the night, we can see who else wants to come. And get some food and sleep while we can. If we can find our way back, that is…”

Sara laughed shortly and began to lead Jody out of the forest and back towards the fields they’d started from. She didn’t know when she’d decided to try and help strays. Nonetheless, the next morning, Sara emerged from the squat building Jody’s friends had claimed as a shelter with a half dozen crumpled-looking survivors in tow. They had followed Sara immediately and without argument.

The group moved quickly westwards towards a distant walled farm complex Sara had chosen as their next landmark. Sara jogged slightly ahead, although she didn’t really know why she was in such a hurry. 

Maybe she could at least train others the way she had failed her family. Perhaps Project Greenshoot hadn’t been purely precautionary after all. If she could just get to Mullins, she was sure she could help—

_Help with what?_

Rebuild a world without her family in it? Sara had lost everything in her life worth having.

_Why keep going?_

Sara shook her head and kept running.

At least in the field, she didn’t have to think about it.

All she needed to do was survive.

**Author's Note:**

> The second scene of this fic was originally inspired by a Zombies, Make challenge prompt titled "My First Knife Fight." 
> 
> The photograph is based on - really, stolen from - the art kaoticfive created as cover art for the ZR:TM song "I Will Be Waiting." I took one look and there was a whole backstory in my head.
> 
> This whole thing was supposed to be a fun one-shot of family bonding. Then I added the first scene as research for my role as Sara in the ZRTM fan project. Then the rest kind of happened as I ran through her journey live as the songs about the events were written.
> 
> I wish you all could understand deep into Sara Smith I had gotten at this point. I got the idea for this fic back within the first ten missions of S2, before many things happened which will seem like references. It was pretty creepy, to be honest, to write something and hear it confirmed on my next run. As of the time of completing this fic, I have just finished S3M5.
> 
> If you've made it to the end, thank you. This is the longest and hardest I've worked on a piece of my writing so far, and it means a lot to me that you took this much time to look at it. Thank you so much.


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